


The Holiday Question

by sarisa



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, M/M, Superhusbands (Marvel), Well - Freeform, also ugly sweater party, holiday fic, really pre-superhusbands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-31
Updated: 2014-12-31
Packaged: 2018-03-04 14:24:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3071435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarisa/pseuds/sarisa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tony has a question for Steve. He'd really rather it not involve awful sweaters or Justin Hammer. He gets one of those wishes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Holiday Question

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kellebelle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kellebelle/gifts).



> I hope you like it! I tried to hit as much as I could from your list. It’s a bit of a hodgepodge, but I hope you enjoy 8) See end notes for warnings (spoilers).

Tony looks up at the class, all of whom are staring at him with rapt attention. Amazing what a few harmless pranks to those who are bored enough to fall asleep in his class can accomplish; no one wants a glass of ice water poured over their head in front of the entire lecture hall. Still, they’re learning; their exam grades on a whole are impressive, and for all that he rarely deigns to teach an undergraduate class, they’re not bad.

 

Still, they have one class to go before their semester finals, and he’s as eager to be done teaching them as they undoubtedly are to be finished with his class. “Yeah, okay, we’re done, get out.”

 

There’s a mad rush for the door, a few of the braver ones laughing audibly. He thinks about yelling after them to actually use the study guides he’d worked so hard on (read: had the teaching assistants work so hard on), but it’s not worth it. And besides, he has places to be.

 

The liberal arts building on campus is about fifty years older than the engineering building that houses his own spacious office, complete with IKEA furniture purchased this decade and actual carpeting instead of old linoleum, but it’s better for multiple reasons, not least because there’s no Justin Fucking Hammer swanning around like he owns the department. But there are other reasons why Tony likes it better, more important ones-

 

“Dad!” A tiny bundle of energy tumbles out of one of the offices down the hall and gets his feet under him, bolting to Tony and tackling his legs.

 

“Whoa, kiddo!” he says, pretending to lose his balance. “We’ve talked about that- you could take a guy out with that kind of momentum!”

 

Peter props his chin on Tony’s knee, having wrapped his arms and legs around his father’s calf, sitting on his boot. “No I couldn’t. Your mass is too large for me to get the appropriate speed in this hallway without some kind of extraneous propulsion.”

 

Not for the first time, Tony grins, because this is his child, without a doubt. “Hey, maybe you could teach my class. Then I can stay here and hang out with Steve, draw stuff-”

 

“Dad.” Peter stares at him, lifting one brow in what is definitely Pepper’s look of dry exasperation. Tony really does need to limit Peter’s exposure to her. It’s clearly a bad influence. “I’m four.”

 

“And a master of stating the obvious. Steve’s teaching you well.” He continues down the hallway, carrying Peter along as he’s attached to his leg. When he reaches the doorway, he finds Steve typing away at his tiny desk, and lifts a knee, making Peter giggle. “My boots don’t match.”

 

“I heard that, you know.” Steve looks over at him and arches a brow, and goddammit he’s doing it too. Ugh. Tony tries for a charming smile.

 

“What, about my boots?”

 

“Hmm.” Steve’s expression is displeased. For a moment, Tony still panics; it’s stupid and tiny and miniscule, of course, hardly worth mentioning, but after only a few seconds before, Steve’s smile peeks through, and Tony relaxes. This is not… well, Steve’s not other people, and he’s not Howard Stark. Tony knows that. He doesn’t have to bend over backwards to please Steve; Steve likes his company fine without that. It’s just… it’s one thing to know that, cerebrally, and another thing entirely to really internalize it. He can’t help forty years of ingrained behavior.

 

Peter snaps him out of it, hopping up from his spot on the floor to stand next to Steve, peering over his shoulder (or rather around it, as even sitting, Peter’s nowhere near tall enough to see over Steve’s anything) and then asking, “Will Mrs. Rogers have cookies?”

 

Steve finishes whatever he’d been typing and hits send, shutting the laptop. “‘Course she will, although she might make you help bake some.”

 

“I guess that would be okay,” Peter says thoughtfully, before yelping when Steve reaches over to tickle him. He dissolves into giggles. Steve grins up at Tony, who realizes he’s still just standing in the doorway watching them, not that there’s really anywhere else to stand in Steve’s tiny closet of a shared office. The door doesn’t even open the whole way, hitting the desk when it’s open about two-thirds of the way. Tony would feel bad, but at last Steve doesn’t have to deal with Justin Hammer. Steve finally releases Peter, who gasps for breath around his giggles for a few seconds before managing a strangled “Can we go?”

 

Steve nods, and Tony misses his grin already. Steve doesn’t smile enough, although he always seems to do so more around Peter. Tony would stick them together more often just for that, even if Peter hadn’t taken so strongly to Steve.

 

“Are you sure your mom doesn’t mind?” Tony asks Steve as Peter runs ahead of them down the hall to press the elevator button.

 

“Nah, she’s excited,” Steve says, zipping up his own jacket and winding his scarf around his neck. “She’s been planning things for them to do tonight all week, and she cleaned out my old room.” He side-eyes Tony. “How about you?”

 

With a sigh, Tony hefts the plastic shopping bag he’s carring next to his briefcase, and Steve smiles a bit wickedly when he sees it.

 

On the way out, as they pass the fourth floor break room, Tony stares at the old coffee filter pinned to the bulletin board with what looks like a steel knitting needle. The note above it reads ‘Never again.’ “Uh, Steve-”

 

“There was an incident,” Steve says, holding the door for Peter and then Tony. “Natasha discovered a colleague had been reusing coffee grounds. We don’t really… need to go into the details.” He glances down at Peter.

 

Tony, who is well-acquainted with Natasha’s fondness for both knitting and throwing knives, nods. “Right, good plan.”

 

Sarah Rogers has tenure and has lived three blocks from campus for the last thirty years- Steve grew up in her small bungalow. Ordered in pieces from a Montgomery Ward catalog decades ago like a lot of the homes in this neighborhood, It’s in excellent repair, the product of both her own diligence and her son’s determination to take care of his mother, despite her equal determination that she doesn’t need anyone to take care of her. And now said son has a gang of helpful army buddies to back him up and paint her house whether she likes it or not.

 

Currently the little bungalow is strung up cheerfully with Christmas lights, and Peter bolts out of the car as soon as they stop, running up the front steps. “Hi, Mrs. Rogers!”

 

“Peter, Merry Christmas!” Sarah Rogers kisses the top of his head as he goes by, and then catches Steve and Tony as they step inside for a minute. Steve goes to the bathroom to change, and Tony hovers in the front hall.

 

“Thanks for this, Sarah,” he says, watching Peter run around looking at all the decorations.

 

“Of course,” she says, squeezing his arm and sending him a significant look. Tony frowns, and then turns to eye his son, who blinks at him innocently and then flees the room.

 

“We talked about this, young man, Secret-Keeper is a sacred duty-”

 

“Secret-keeping sounds kind of intense,” Steve interrupts, returning from his quick change. Tony eyes his new ensemble and winces.

 

“He assured me he could handle it,” he mutters.

 

Steve snorts and steers Tony in the direction of the bathroom; dragging his feet, he goes. Behind him, he hears Mrs. Rogers say, “I’ve pinky sworn, dear, I’m afraid I can’t tell you.”

 

In the bathroom, Tony stares at his newest sartorial acquisition for a long moment before dragging it over his head. He swears he starts itching as soon as it touches his skin. Still, he puts it on, because Steve is really looking forward to this party, and Tony does have a fondness for making Steve happy.

 

He buttons up his coat again before he comes back out, though. No reason to give Peter even more ammunition than what he’s already got- Tony can counter the big brown eyes, since they’re also present on his own face. If he showed up anywhere within Peter’s sight in… this… well. He’d never hear the end of it.

 

“Dad?” comes his son’s voice as he steps out of the bathroom. Tony looks down, smiling until he sees Peter’s face. His brown eyes, so like Tony’s even now, not just at that age, are worried.

 

“Yeah, kiddo?” The words might be brusque, but his tone isn’t. He kneels down in front of his son and pushes back the messy hair that’s been falling over his forehead since Peter decided he didn’t want a haircut for a little while (Tony’s been letting it go, but between Pepper and Steve he suspects Peter will have his hair cut soon enough).

 

“Are you still gonna ask Steve-” Peter pulls back and looks around furtively, as though he expects Steve to jump around the corner and pounce on him, which would be a very un-Steve-like thing to do, all things considered. “You know. The thing?” He widens his eyes as though Tony could figure out what he’s talking about via his facial expressions.

 

He could probably make a guess on a normal day, but precious little else has been on Tony’s mind for the last week, and he nods. “That’s the plan.”

 

Peter smiles hopefully. “Okay. I just wanted to check, so you didn’t chicken out.”

 

Tony snorts. “Starks don’t chicken out, squirt.”

 

The look Peter sends him says everything he needs to. “I had to ask him out for you.”

 

“Okay, now listen here, kiddo-”

 

“You ready?” Steve appears around the corner, smiling down at the two of them. Tony stares at his face, then his apparel, and back at his face.

 

“That is horrific.”

 

Steve smirks, reaching down to grab his arm. “Stop harassing your kid and let’s go.”

 

Peter giggles, and Tony bristles, affronted. “He was the harasser, while I was the harassee, Rogers. You’re misinterpreting the situation-”

 

“Dad, why are you so mean?” When they look down at Peter, his eyes are hugely wide, and his lower lip is actually quivering. It’s a masterful act, and Tony would be so proud if he wasn’t the one being trolled.

 

“Turn those eyes on Mrs. Rogers at your own peril,” he says mock-threateningly. “And go to bed. Behave yourself, don’t be a brat, no back-talk, sweet dreams and et cetera.”

 

“Goodnight and good luck, Dad.” Peter grins up at him, wiggling his brows, and then disappears back into the den, leaving his father shaking his head.

 

Steve just looks back and forth between them, arching a brow at Tony, who just nudges his shoulder. “Let’s go, Rogers.”

 

The little house Thor shares with Jane is only a few blocks from Mrs. Rogers’, but his music is audible much sooner. Normally he listens to new-agey stuff mixed in with some of the classic rock Tony had introduced him to, back in the day; it’s disconcerting, to say the least, to hear Nirvana followed up by flutes and a harp, but Thor has always done what he wants, and Tony’s given up trying to convert him to the art of making playlists.

 

Tonight, it’s Bing Crosby crooning about white Christmases that greets them on the sidewalk.

 

“My friends!” Thor booms, opening the door before they make it up the walk. “Be welcome at our festivities!”

 

Tony has to stop for a minute to stare at his sweater. There’s a reindeer head, or possibly a moose head, actually sticking out the front of it, almost nine inches in front of Thor’s chest. It has a bright red, blinking nose. “Um.”

 

Steve grins, pulling off his jacket to reveal a horrible green sweater dripping with glittery gold tassels. It clings to his torso, and Tony winces, both drawn to what’s underneath and completely repulsed by the thing. “How did you even find one that fit you?” Much less one like that?

 

“Goodwill,” Steve says simply, hooking an arm around his waist and sneakily reaching around to undo Tony’s coat buttons. He yelps, trying to twist away, but Steve’s got quicker hands than you’d expect, looking at his big blue eyes and innocent smile, and he’s got the coat tugging down over Tony’s arms even as Tony tries to pull away from him.

 

Compared to the two of them, Tony’s peach-colored sartorial nightmare, complete with tiny felt elves hot-glued on, is actually pretty mild. He still wants nothing to do with it. “This is awful,” he whines as Thor takes their coats (Tony half expects him to hang them on his sweater’s nose). They can hear the fire popping in the other room, and Tony holds back a groan. “It’s boiling hot in here. We’re all going to roast.”

 

“Then maybe I’ll just have to take the sweater off of you later,” Steve leans over to murmur into his ear, and Tony shivers, suddenly even more overheated. Before he can reply, their friends swarm over them, all of them dressed in various knitted horrors, and Tony figures it can wait. He can show instead of tell, once they’re alone.

 

The party isn’t so bad, once it gets going and Tony figures he’s been sufficiently blinded by everyone’s ugly sweaters. Clint’s is the most ridiculous, with a horse head knitted on the front and a tail streaming out the back, near the bottom hem. Natasha’s somehow manages to look classy, even with its pom-pom’s, and Bruce’s has Christmas lights that actually light up green. They play a few rounds of Cards Against Humanity and some ridiculous holiday pictionary, and get drunk on Thor’s moonshine (which is actually really good, Tony’s not going to lie- he’s not sure how Thor manages to make honeyed mead in a bathtub, but it’s pretty spectacuar). And after a while, the group splinters into smaller ones, and Tony finds himself and Steve outside in the backyard as it starts to flurry, admiring the rest of Thor’s Christmas decorations, which is to say the ones that couldn’t be squeezed into the front yard.

 

It’s the perfect moment. Tony stares at Steve’s profile in the moonlight, the snow falling lightly around them, and knows in his bones that this is the right moment to reach into his pocket, to pull out the little box and ask the question that’s been on the tip of his tongue all evening, waiting for the right opening.

 

And then there’s a bang from inside, and Clint’s cackling echoes out into the backyard, Thor’s booming laugh. Tony considers killing them. “Hey,” he says, a bit strained. “So it occurs to me that I’ve got the whole night off to spend with you, no munchkin in bed keeping us quiet.” He nudges Steve. “Wanna head back to my place, soldier?”

 

Steve looks back at the house, and then down at Tony, and he smiles a little. “Yeah,” he says, wrapping an arm around Tony’s shoulders. “Yeah, let’s get out of here.”

 

Tony’s house, on the other side of town, is much newer construction and is a gigantic mess, although granted it’s less of one since Steve came into their lives. Normally Steve starts tidying without even paying attention to what he’s doing, which Tony has always found to be an amusing phenomenon, that Steve can carry on an entire conversation while cleaning up Peter’s toys and Tony’s scattered laundry and electronics. Tonight, however, both Steve’s mouth and his hands are otherwise occupied.

 

Until they’re not, and Stave pulls back from where he has Tony pressed against the wall in the foyer, his hands slipping down from underneath the horrible sweater. Tony opens his eyes to stare at him, confused and not quite capable of a coherent protest. Instead, he just makes a sad noise. Words aren’t possible right now, not after that.

 

Steve is breathing hard, which is pretty flattering, actually. He’s still able to speak, however, and he eyes Tony up and down consideringly. “Change back,” he says after a pause. “To the suit. Change back.”

 

Tony blinks at him. He looks down at the awful elves, and then back up at Steve, his brow furrowed. Steve grins a little. “I want to take it off of you.”

 

Oh. Well, that’s certainly agreeable.

 

Tony grabs his briefcase, hoping Steve won’t mind a few wrinkles, because he’s still got the shirt, vest and tie in there. He stumbles past Steve with a mumbled, “Yessir,” and into the bathroom, where it takes some doing but he manages to put all his layers back on, throwing the sweater into the corner, to hopefully be forgotten forever. When he comes back out, Steve’s waiting just outside, and he slips Tony’s glasses up onto his nose, brushing a finger over his cheekbone as he pulls away.

 

It’s hard to tell in the dim light, but Tony’s pretty sure Steve’s blushing a bit, and he eyes the taller man, thoughtful. “So you like the teacher look, hm?”

 

Steve glances across the hall to Tony’s study. “Maybe I’ve had a few fantasies about bending a professor over his desk.”

 

Tony feels one corner of his mouth curling upward. “Maybe I can accommodate something along those lines.”

 

“Yeah?” Steve’s grin mirrors his own.

 

“Hm.” Tony sets his briefcase aside and saunters around Steve into the study, hearing the other man follow him in. “Mr. Rogers, your exam performance has been abysmal of late. I’m afraid you won’t be able to get your grade up by end of term. I don’t offer extra credit.”

 

Steve actually shuffles his feet against the carpet. Tony wants to giggle a little bit, because he’s had more than his fair share to drink tonight and, well, this is hilarious and wonderful. “Is there any other way I might be able to get it up, Dr. Stark?”

 

Tony can’t hold in the snort at the double entendre, and he turns around in front of his desk, slowly unbuttoning his jacket. “I do like you, Rogers. Maybe I can come up with something special for you to do for me.”

 

It’s ridiculous, and they sound like they’re acting in awful porn, but the look in Steve’s eyes when he watches Tony’s fingers on the vest buttons is definitely not an act. Tony slows down when he notices, his fingers flicking each one open, and he reaches up to loosen his tie and the top few buttons of his shirt, lifting a finger to beckon to Steve. He’s expecting maybe a bashful few steps forward, but Steve covers the distance in two strides, pushing Tony back over the desk. “I bet I can make it an A+, Mr. Stark.”

 

“I thought it was Dr. Stark,” Tony counters breathlessly as Steve leans down and licks a stripe up over his exposed collarbone.

 

“It’s whatever you want,” Steve says against his skin, his breath hot. Tony groans and arches his neck back, giving him more to work with. There’s a tug on his tie, and he groans louder.

 

“Isn’t the teacher supposed to bend the student over in these kinds of pornos?” he manages after a moment or so, and it’s Steve’s turn to snort.

 

“But then I wouldn’t be doing the work for my grade.”

 

“Oh god,” is all Tony manages in response as Steve’s fingers undo his trousers and slip inside. Normally he’s the one who babbles during sex, a mix of swearing and dirty talk that always seems to get Steve’s engine going, but this time it’s Steve who’s talking, intermixed with pleased sounds every time his fingers uncover a new bit of skin, as though it’s all new to him and he hasn’t seen it all a hundred times before.

 

“Every time you wander around in one of these waistcoats,” he murmurs, “I always want to rip it off you with my teeth. Button by button.” He undoes Tony’s shirt from the bottom, sucking marks into his belly as he goes. “Every goddamn time. Right in the middle of campus, if I see you walking. Or if you’re in front of me, and I see it all snug on your waist, God. What it does to your ass... Mr. Stark.”

 

He leans back and flips Tony over, starts pulling down his trousers, and Tony goes willingly, shoving papers and probably a few electronics off the smooth surface so he can reach up and grip the edge.

 

He’d like to say that he recalls every second of that night, but in the blur of fingers and, to his surprise, soft, wet tongue, he loses coherency a bit. Okay, a lot. Things clear up again, though, when Steve pushes inside, a bit too big, Tony still just a little bit too tight, and absolutely perfect. Tony rests his forehead on the desk, gripping the far edge tight enough that he can feel the wood creak beneath his fingers, and Steve lays his head on the nape of Tony’s neck, still covered in the smooth silk and satin of his shirt and vest. It seems to be a thing for Steve- in fact, all kinds of things seem to be a thing for Steve tonight. Tony will have to remember them when he’s capable of thought again.

 

It’s not going to take long. Tony might still be a little bit drunk, but even so, he can tell that he’s not going to last. The angle is perfect, making him glad he’d bought this desk; every time Steve thrusts in, slow and deep, he hits Tony’s prostate dead on, and Tony shudders almost continuously.

 

It builds and builds, and he lets go over his death grip on the edge of the desk to reach back for Steve, who lets go of one side of his hips to tangle his fingers with Tony’s from behind, leaning so they’re pressed back to front as he thrusts. “Love you,” he says hoarsely, his skin damp against the back of Tony’s neck, and to Tony’s shock it’s the words that send him over the edge, slurring out a response as his vision whites out for a long minute.

 

When he comes back to himself, he’s still breathing hard, Steve plastered to his back with his face buried in Tony’s neck. He can feel the whuffle of Steve’s breath on his skin, his shirt collar dragged down out of the way.

 

“Yes,” Steve whispers, just as Tony’s about to make a quip about his being top of the class. The joke fades from his lips, though, and he turns his head, trying to see Steve.

 

“Yes… what?”

 

Steve lifts his face, blinking down at Tony and biting back a smile. “My answer. It’s yes.” At Tony’s blank look, he starts to snicker, and then to laugh. Tony’s eyes widen.

 

“No,” he says slowly. “I did not.”

 

“You did. You distinctly said, marry me.”

 

Tony chokes, and then groans, dropping his forehead onto the desk. He’ll just… stay here. Maybe forever. They can entomb him in the house, he’ll become a hermit, never have to see another person again and relive the shame- “I had a whole thing, a whole speech, I was going to earlier but then I chickened out and was gonna ask you while we cuddled, fuck I’m so sorry, Steve-”

 

Steve’s grinning now. “Tony. I said yes.”

 

Right. “Right. You- really?” He pushes himself up off the desk, Steve’s response slowly sinking in after the horrible surprise of having asked off the cuff like that, mid-orgasm. Seriously, not exactly a story you tell the kids.

 

Steve lets him up, and leans in for a kiss, his smile distinctly goofy by this point. “Really really.”

 

“I should never have let Peter show you that movie.”

 

“I hear there’s a Christmas one.”

 

“Of course there is.” Tony carefully pulls up his trousers enough that he can pull out the small box in his pocket. His expression turns serious as he kicks the pants off and away; he might only be wearing a rumpled shirt and waistcoat, but he looks surprisingly dignified and sober dispite all of that. “Steven Rogers. I would get down on one knee but I think both knees might give out on me, so you can just pretend. I- there’s- well, Peter- You’re great with my kid, he loves you, and I love you, and for some reason you seem to also love me, God help you.” He wants to look away, to the side, down, anywhere but at Steve, who’s also wearing a serious expression. “Will you marry me?”

 

Steve just looks at him for a long minute, and then he smiles again, the expression much softer. “Yes, Tony Stark. I’ll marry you.” He holds a hand out, and Tony realizes he’d never even opened the ring box. “May I?”

 

“Right, yeah, I- here.” Tony opens it and shows Steve the ring, a simple white band set with tiny sapphires. Nothing ostentatious, because Steve isn’t ostentatious, just something simple. He’d debated, because Steve’s birthstone is a ruby and Tony himself prefers red, but Steve likes blue, and Tony thought that would be best. It seems he’d guessed right, if the way Steve’s smile widens is any indication. “Just a little bling. Not too much. Is it okay?”

 

“It’s great.” Steve slips it on without another word, and Tony stares down at his ring on Steve’s finger, feeling a ridiculous tingle in the pit of his stomach. Steve tugs his arm, jolting him out of his daze, and Tony follows obediently as Steve pulls him towards the stairs. “Come on. Let’s go to bed.”

 

Following Steve up the stairs has its own benefits, Tony decides, as Steve kicks off the remainder of his own clothes and leads the way up. “I could get used to this teacher-student thing,” he decides. “Might even do it more often, if this was how I could offer extra credit.”

 

“Sure, Anthony, I believe you,” Steve drawls over his shoulder, pulling Tony into the bedroom and down onto the giant bed.

 

“Do _not_ bring Justin Hammer into this bedroom.”

 

 

  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> There is a bit of student/teacher roleplaying in this fic. If this bothers you, you've been warned. Both parties are fully consenting adults.


End file.
